She had come to the temporary presidency through the back door of a constitutional crisis, and she’d probably be kicked out the front door in a matter of days by the House of Representatives when they elected a president.
She was unprepared for this crisis. Even when the White House beehive buzzed later in the morning with the full complement of about four hundred White House worker bees, she’d still feel alone and in the dark. She was the isolated queen bee.
Retiring after two terms, the outgoing president had refused to attend her swearing-in ceremony. He declined putting together a transition task force to brief her team on the pretense she was only a transitory president. Aside from his political ties to Roscoe Corker, she suspected the former president couldn’t abide her because she was an African American woman in the Oval Office. Maybe he could abide an African American or a woman, but not both at the same time.
Due to his influence, she received only minimal national security briefings from the intelligence community. The secretary of defense and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, holdovers like the rest of the cabinet, were happy to support the cold shoulder. They resented what they considered her presumptuousness in lowering the DEFCON level of defense against their advice. The gossip around town was that none planned to resign because they worried she wasn’t up to the challenge of the presidency.
“Here’s your morning wake-up call, Madam President.” In strode Emily James, her chief of staff and longtime friend, with the problems of the day. She plopped down in a chair at the side of the president’s desk.
“What’s with the ‘Madam President,’ Emily?” She grimaced. “Call me Dallas in private or Ms. President if we’re among others . . . but not Madam President. Sounds like I run a Texas whorehouse.”
“Gotcha.” James grinned.
“Now, down to business. What’s up?”
“Number one. Still no call from the Chinese foreign minister. Number two. The president of the undergraduate student government at UIC is organizing a citywide boycott of all colleges and high schools in Chicago until Congress bans semiautomatic weapons.”
“Number two’s as welcome as an outhouse breeze.” Dallas Taylor rose from her executive chair behind the desk. She looked out the three windows behind her desk with her hands clasped behind her back. “All those kids with nothing to do. It means even more gang shootings and crime in Chicago.” Too few kids in Chicago’s public school were ready for college, and too many dropped out. That made her mad. A few good teachers and a no-nonsense principal had set her on the right path. “Let’s contact the student leaders and invite them to the White House instead to express their concerns . . . if they call off the boycott.”
“Number Three. The media—”
“Don’t tell me. I know.” Taylor twisted her red scarf. “Shooting survivors have been booked on media programs. They’ll call for thoughts and prayers on behalf of the victims. There’ll be a lot of fuss and feathers, but nothing will happen. Get a bill prepared and find a sponsor for a ban on semiautomatic weapons. We’ve got to do something.”
“I don’t advise that. Nothing. Absolutely nothing will happen on this issue, until the House selects a president.”
“Who knows when that’ll be? We have to act.”
“Hold off. Do the photo ops. Meet the students. Prepare the groundwork.”
“You’re right.” She sank back into her executive chair. “Congress can’t walk and chew gum at the same time. Let’s wait till the election’s settled. Can’t be long now.”
“Number four, I saved for last. You’ll love it.” The chief of staff shook her head in disbelief. “A breakaway group from the American Gun Association is going around saying Chicago should hire unemployed gang members to protect city schools.”
“Should I respond?”
“Not worth it. Even the association thinks that breakaway group is wacky. In fact, the association—”
The chief of staff’s cell buzzed.
“What’s up?” Taylor asked.
“The Chinese responded.”
“Well?”
“For now they’re suspending any blacklisting of high-crime American cities.”
“Hallelujah! Now—”
James motioned for Taylor to wait a minute while she gave the call her full attention. Her eyes looked at the president in disbelief. She shook her head and disconnected the call.
“What’s going on, Emily?”
“Must be a translation problem.”
“What’s the problem?”
“They decided not to take any action until the House elects what they call a real president.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Jim Murphy hunched over the hard kneeler in his pew at the requiem Mass. In the center aisle rested a casket covered in a white pall with an embroidered gold crucifix. Inside the casket, newly sprinkled with holy water, lay the corpse of Commander Jack Cronin.
A former police chaplain, the officiating priest eulogized the saintly virtues and stellar accomplishments of the deceased despite the pastor’s prohibition of eulogies. A brief homily allowed by church regulation ballooned into what Murphy considered a near plea for canonization. Righteous, generous, law abiding, Irish gift of gab, Knights of Columbus, parish lector, surely with the Lord in heaven, blah, blah, blah, and so it went.
The parishioners and political somebodies from all across the city, numbering in the hundreds, listened enraptured to the idolization of the corrupt cop. Even the pint-sized alderman with the default scowl looked ecstatic. The community had hallucinated its own reality, and in that reality loyalty to clan and kin was the highest virtue. In this reality, not only were all politics local but also the definition of right and wrong.
It was to be expected. The departmental buzz was that years ago the commander had given the chaplain a pass when the reverend got nabbed as a john in a prostitution sting. For once Murphy agreed with his bookish brother. The Latin motto for the city should be manus manum lavat . . . one hand washes another . . . instead of urbs in horto . . . a city in a garden.
Murphy’s ears tingled and his stomach churned. Speak no evil of the dead, Katie said . . . but whitewash them? This figment of haloed imagination called the commander was unknown to those who knew the canny cop. It was as though the commander’s arrest for obstruction of justice, police brutality, and lying to the FBI had never happened in the old neighborhood. “Had Commander Jack Cronin not been betrayed and hounded,” the ex-chaplain exclaimed, “this exemplary man would have avoided his untimely demise. Instead his enemies tormented him until even the lion heart of this local hero gave out and he passed from us to his reward in heaven. He gave his life to this community just as our Savior, Jesus Christ, gave his life for us.”
Untimely demise? The priest had airbrushed away the death that dare not be named in the never-never land of communal denial. The commander had in fact blown his brains out with a service revolver. Never-never land could not survive this truth. The suicide did not fit the narrative of this clone of Christ dying on the cross of scandal for the salvation of his community.
Without uttering the name of the Judas who sat among them, the priest paused to stare in Murphy’s direction. Craned toward him, familiar and wordless faces accused him of betraying the commander and becoming an enemy of the community. Stumbling over knees and feet and enduring sour glances, Murphy lumbered out of the pew and fast paced down the center aisle toward the exit.
Outside the church he ran into his brother, arriving late for the funeral services due to a flight delay. “What do you think you’re doing?” Bryan asked.
“And a brotherly hello to you too.” Jim stood in the way of his brother on the church steps. “I’m getting fresh air after all that hot air inside.”
“Show some respect.”
“Respect is earned, not ordered.”
“I shouldn’
t expect you’d stand up for your own.” His brother frowned. “You let him hang out to dry.”
“Hang out to dry?” Jim walked down a step to come face-to-face with his brother. “I’m the bad guy for cooperating with the FBI? You’re supposed to be on the side of law enforcement. A little hypocrisy going on here, bro?”
“You owe the commander. Before he went down, he pulled strings to put you in charge of the Thirteenth District.”
“I didn’t ask for it.” He put his hands on his hips. “I owe him nothing.”
“What game are you playing with Senex?” Bryan asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You know . . . your investigation of him.”
“What’s it to you? You never took an interest in what I was doing.” His brother had been general counsel for Promethean Pharma. “I get it now. You’re Senex’s errand boy come to get me off his back.”
“Don’t tempt me, buster.” Bryan assumed the tough-guy pose of their early years when he used to intimidate his younger brother. “Leave Senex alone if you have any smarts.”
“Or else what, big brother? You gonna wrestle me again into your haunted closet with ghosts . . . like you did when I was a kid?” Jim jiggled his arms and legs. “Look, I’m quaking in fear.”
“I’m only looking out for your best interests.”
“I heard enough baloney inside without yours. Senex promised you the political moon if you jump through his crooked hoops, didn’t he?” He didn’t have to listen to Bryan, who told him many years ago that he had to fight his own playground battles. “Aren’t you the big brother who told me to take care of myself?”
“Just like you take care of Dad.” Bryan stabbed a forefinger at his brother. “I’m suing to remove Dad from your custody.”
“Like I don’t know.” Jim glared at Bryan. “Katie told me. You want him to rot in a loony bin.”
“Look, Jim.” Bryan backed down a step. “I know we can’t get along. But for both our sakes and Dad’s, you can’t let him continue to drive a car.”
“I tried stopping him. He says he’ll only listen to you because . . . because I’m not his son.” Jim’s shoulders sagged. “For his sake . . . not mine . . . talk to him before you leave.”
“The only solution is that I get custody. Now let me pass.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
With his testimony on prescription drug prices concluded before the Senate Special Committee on Aging, Sebastian Senex hurried from this waste of time to an unexpected meeting. The invitation had come while he was testifying in DC. His first impulse was to refuse. When told the reason for the invitation was unknown, his curiosity got the better of him.
On the way, Senex looked out the limousine window at the darkening DC skyline. More snow and cold weather. Before his biological transformation, his hours-long testimony defending Promethean Pharma would have exhausted him. No longer. As he left the limo, he felt a spring in his step, keeping up with a thirtysomething staffer. The staffer guided him into an enclosed alley on H Street, two blocks away from the White House, and through an underground tunnel to the White House basement.
“Where are we going?”
“She wants to see you in the Oval Office.”
They entered the private elevator to the Oval Office.
“She wants this meeting kept confidential.”
“Suits me just fine,” he said, not wanting his Hinky Dink cronies to think he colluded with Dallas Taylor behind their backs. “It would be bad for my reputation otherwise.”
She’d probably invited him for another lecture on the lack of minorities in the upper management of Promethean Pharma. Just like she used to as a Congressional Black Caucus member out to make a name for herself at his expense. It was mutual dislike at first sight. He looked forward to refusing whatever she wanted, except for one request: helping her resign from the presidency. She was in over her head and had to know that by now.
Concealed behind a wall panel when not in use, the elevator opened into the Oval Office. She sat at the Resolute desk, bent over a sheaf of documents, without acknowledging his presence. He was onto her attempt to intimidate him. The elevator door closed behind them. The staffer replaced the wall panel and departed.
Dallas Taylor looked up at him through her reading glasses and nodded to a chair at the side of her desk. He sat down, placing his palms on his thighs and sitting tall and straight. He locked eyes with her, vowing not to be the first to speak or break eye contact. The woman showed no sartorial shame gussied up in her glitzy hoop earrings foreign to the stately décor of the White House. The only redeeming feature was the smart white-knit suit with a pearl necklace worn in place of her trademark hot-pink pantsuit.
“Care to join me in an afternoon glass of bourbon with branch water?” She held up a glass. “I find an occasional drink refreshes me.”
“I don’t imbibe.” Senex sniffed. “I would think it interferes with your work.”
“Just about every one of our best presidents did imbibe.” She put the glass away. “FDR, JFK, and LBJ . . . and they all did quite well.”
“That’s your opinion.” He shifted in his chair. “Why am I here?”
“One reason only.” She removed her reading glasses and let them drop on her lanyard. “To inform you Promethean Pharma must comply with its statutory duty to negotiate with the secretary of Health and Human Services over the sale price of the vaccine called Anoflix.” She opened and closed the eyeglass frames hanging from her neck. “Otherwise my attorney general will sue Promethean for an excise tax amounting to seventy percent of the drug’s gross sales.”
“Go ahead.” He leaned in toward her. “The newfangled federal statute is unconstitutional. It’s a socialist scheme to destroy the free market.”
“What free market?” she asked, her voice rising. “Your company has the patent and is the only one ready to make the upgraded vaccine for COVID-28. The director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention tells me the old vaccine is useless for this new strain detected in China.” She uncrossed her arms and took in a deep breath. “You don’t have to like me, but why not negotiate for the good of the country?”
“Because I spent almost six billion dollars in research and development of new drugs . . . besides an additional two billion for Anoflix. Because I assembled the team of experts and I provided the indispensable leadership. I deserve the fruits of that genius. By refusing to negotiate I am preserving liberty for this country.”
“Lordy, you’re too modest, Mr. Senex. Your genius doesn’t end here.” She removed the lanyard from her neck and pointed her eyeglasses at him. “Promethean now charges the Chinese government one thousand dollars each for three doses of Anoflix over a six-month period to protect one individual.” She folded her arms. “I won’t allow price gouging in the United States.”
“If you won’t, the Chinese will.”
“I’m barring you from exporting Anoflix to China under the Defense Production Act unless you negotiate.”
“Do that and I’ll move production to China.”
“You’re still a US citizen subject to our laws.”
“You’re not thinking straight. Just making trouble for us both.” He furrowed his brow. “Think what the United States saves with Anoflix. If COVID-28 infects the United States, the cost to our health-care system will be about five hundred billion dollars over several years, without even considering the catastrophic blow to the economy.” He steepled his fingers and smiled. “Look at the big picture. I’m saving the government money.”
“I call that an extortion threat.”
“I call it hard facts.”
“You’re entitled to recover costs and a reasonable profit. You’re not entitled to hold the country hostage. Negotiate now.”
“Never.”
“I can’t believe you’re going to drag this out in court
.” Taylor closed her eyes and massaged her temples with her fingers. She reopened her eyes. “If the Chinese don’t stop COVID, Mr. Senex, and it takes root here, we’re talking millions of cases and hundreds of thousands of deaths without a vaccine.”
“Is that all?” He got up to leave.
“There’s more. Sit down.” She pointed to the chair. “I’ll also have the Senate Special Committee investigate your refusal to comply.”
“Those clowns couldn’t find the aspirin bottle in a medicine chest.”
“You must think me dumb as a post.” She leaned back in her swivel chair and locked her fingers across her chest. “I know you want to drag this dispute out till the House makes your boy the president. He’ll then drop any lawsuit I file against you.”
“You’re out of your league. Resign.”
“Want to play tough?” Her head bobbed as she spoke. “I’m fixing to schedule a press conference and call Promethean out on its price-gouging monopoly.”
“Monopoly?” He laughed. “That monopoly is called a patent. It is a legal monopoly enshrined in our Constitution to promote innovation. I earned that patent by bringing this blockbuster drug to market. I’m entitled to my profits.”
“We’ll see about that.” She shook her forefinger at him. “Patents shouldn’t be used for price gouging and letting the poor suffer and die.”
“If you attack me or my company, I’ll counterpunch through the media.” He clutched the arms of his chair. “There’s something more going on here. You’ve been after me as soon as you got to Congress.”
“I’ll tell you, mister.” She rose from her chair and looked down at him in his. “Years ago my granddaddy worked as a stevedore out of Galveston before he had to retire because of work-related injuries. The pain was so bad he got a prescription from a pill mill for opioids manufactured by Promethean Pharma.”
American Conspiracy Page 18
